


Beyond Reproach: Reading Queerness in the BBC Adaptation of “And Then There Were None”

by puckity



Category: And Then There Were None (TV 2015)
Genre: Gen, Meta, Multi, Queer Subtext, Sexual Repression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-05-21 02:17:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6034318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puckity/pseuds/puckity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An exploration of the various manifestations of queerness--both textual and subtextual--as well as the literary and cultural contexts through which they can be examined in the 2015 BBC miniseries adaption of Agatha Christie's "And Then There Were None."</p><p>***NOTE: This piece is currently on hiatus, due to personal reasons that have been keeping me from being able to write (for my own enjoyment) over the past several months. However, it will be completed! I plan on returning to it as soon as I am able to do so. Thank you for your patience and understanding!***</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Not-So-Brief Introduction and a Bit of Context

**Author's Note:**

> Written upon the request of a few loyal ATTWN fans (most notably [superfluousdee](http://superfluousdee.tumblr.com/), whose enthusiasm has kept this going).
> 
> You can also follow me on [Tumblr](http://puckity.tumblr.com/).

In November 1939, two months after the invasion of Poland by Nazi German forces, British author Agatha Christie published the 27th of what would be 66 mystery novels that she penned during her lifetime. Ultimately Christie would release 73 novels, 28 short story collections, and 16 plays (along with a cluster of other works including two autobiographies) that would collectively sell more than two billion copies worldwide—making Christie the third best-selling English language writer of all time, behind the authors of the Bible and William Shakespeare. She was appointed Commander of the Order of the British Empire (CBE) by Queen Elizabeth II and later promoted to Dame Commander for her contributions to modern literature; however, outside the realm of honours her most common title was and continues to be [“the Queen of Crime”](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FAgatha_Christie&t=YmJhYjJmMGJjNjdhZDlkYjdhYzIyNjE0YTg4ODA5Mzc4YThmMDJkMCx1cGV1TWtnRw%3D%3D).

But in 1939 she was 49 years old—less than halfway through her writing career—and had decided that the inspiration for her newest work would be the popular British blackface song [“Ten Little N*****s”](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FTen_Little_Indians%23Derivative_songs&t=MGI1N2NhZjJkZjUyMjVkNWEzOWUyOTkzY2IyYWQxMmU5M2YxOTdhNix1cGV1TWtnRw%3D%3D) (a word which, regardless of cultural and/or academic dissonance, I will not write out). The novel would first be published in the UK under that title, but would be changed for the US release in December 1939 to the final line of the poem. Subsequent editions as well as media adaptations would use a variant (and similarly offensive) title from the poem: “Ten Little Indians”. It wasn’t until the late 1980s that both the UK and US reprints standardized the title to the original US version: “And Then There Were None”.

[Original 1940 US Cover]

The novel would go on to sell over 100 million copies worldwide, making it Christie’s best-selling work—as well as the world’s best-selling mystery and the seventh best-selling book of all time. Christie herself considered it to be both her most difficult book to write, and her masterpiece.

Thematically—although Alfred Hitchcock’s 1960 classic _Psycho_ is often considered to be the “grandfather” of slasher movies—Christie’s novel can clearly be seen as the earlier prototype for the modern horror/slasher narrative.

The story follows ten strangers who are all summoned to a remote island (named after the poem; in the standardized modern edition it is Solider Island, from “Ten Little Soldiers”) under various pretenses through letters sent by a “U.N. Owen”. After their first dinner together, a gramophone recording is played which accuses each guest and the two staff members of being responsible for the willful death of another person or person(s). Most of the characters vehemently deny their culpability, even as their party begins being killed off one by one in the fashion of the titular rhyme. As their terror and hysteria grows, the truth about their alleged crimes starts to emerge. The novel ultimately reveals as much about the insidious nature of truth, denial, and guilt—and the lies we tell ourselves in service of them—as it does about mystery and murder.

The core ten characters are, briefly, as follows:

 **1\. Anthony Marston:** a hedonistic young playboy  
**2\. Ethel Rogers:** the house cook who appears to be terrified of everything—but especially of her husband, Thomas  
**3\. General John MacArthur:** a celebrated army hero from the First World War  
**4\. Thomas Rogers:** the house butler and domineering husband of Ethel  
**5\. Miss Emily Brent:** a fanatically religious and self-righteous spinster  
**6\. Justice Lawrence Wargrave:** a prominent judge, now retired  
**7\. Dr. Edward Armstrong:** an anxious doctor and teetotaler  
**8\. William Blore:** a former police detective and current private investigator  
**9\. Philip Lombard:** a vicious mercenary who has been operating in Africa  
**10\. Vera Claythorne:** a games mistress at a girls’ boarding school, who was previously a governess

[2015 BBC Cast, left to right: Lombard, Rogers, Claythorne, Marston, Armstrong, Wargrave, Blore, Brent, MacArthur, Mrs. Rogers]

Christie’s novel has been [adapted numerous times](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FAnd_Then_There_Were_None%23Adaptations&t=MzFjZmRmYTNlNDY2MzVkZGQ2ZDU1ZThjNWIxYmVkZWU3MzdhZDczMyx1cGV1TWtnRw%3D%3D) since its initial publication across various mediums including the stage, films, television, and radio and has been reworked as a board game, a graphic novel series, and a video game. There have also been various films, television shows, and books which borrowed heavily from/were strongly inspired by the original story. The first adaptation was done by Christie herself in adapting her book for the stage in 1943. This version saw a significant departure from the original novel in that the ending was changed entirely; whereas the novel ends with all the main characters confirmed as guilty of their accused crimes and murdered/executed for them, the stage play presents the final two surviving characters—Vera Claythorne and Philip Lombard—as innocent, able to outwit the killer and survive (with an implied matrimonial future for the two). This change—though fundamentally altering the tone and themes of the novel—should be viewed in its historical context: in the throes of World War II, cheerful fictional escapism was pointedly necessary. The original ending was considered by Christie and her collaborators as simply too on-the-nose for the time.

[Whatever the motivation for that change](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FAnd_Then_There_Were_None_%2528play%2529&t=YWYzYjI4YzVlNGY4ODA0NTI5MTMxMDk1Mzg3YjAzOThhNDU2NTljZix1cGV1TWtnRw%3D%3D), it has had a substantial impact on almost all subsequent major English-language adaptations. The first film (René Clair’s 1945 US production) followed the stage play almost exactly, down to the false identity ruse that ultimately excuses “Lombard” of his alleged murders. The following three films—all British productions by Harry Alan Towers (1965, 1974, and 1989)—kept the “happy” ending while changing several characters’ backstories, alleged victims’ identities, the location, and the overall atmosphere (e.g. the 1965 version was adapted to appeal to the “swinging sixties” mentality with more action and sex, the 1974 version took place in an Iranian hotel, and the 1989 version was set on an African safari). The narratives of the three major television adaptations (one in 1949 and two in 1959) are less clear; two of the three are considered to be lost productions (with no copies available) and the third appears to be in extremely rare circulation. Among the several non-English adaptations for both film and television, only one version—the 1987 Russian film Десять негритят ( _Desyat’ negrityat_ / _Ten Little Negroes_ )—opted to stay true to the grim tone and bleak ending of the original.

Which brings us to the [most recent adaptation](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FAnd_Then_There_Were_None_%2528TV_series%2529&t=MzU1ZDNmMjZhNmU5YjllMGU2YjdhM2UzMTA2MTIxYzRlZjNmNzZiNix1cGV1TWtnRw%3D%3D): the late-2015 BBC One miniseries _And Then There Were None_. The first English-language and UK version in 26 years, this miniseries is also the first English-language production to construct itself within the oppressively ominous themes of dread, paranoia, and horror on which the original novel was built. The ending, although slightly altered from the book (to accommodate a few logistical differences and to integrate the dénouement which occurs in the novel’s epilogue), is thematically and technically faithful—which also marks it as the first English-language adaptation to retain Christie’s original ending.

None of this is meant to cast aspersions on those previous versions; on the contrary, retooling and fashioning new creations out of older works has always been a staple of creative expression. The point of this historical overview is to place the 2015 adaptation in dialogue with the novel and its cinematic predecessors, and to pinpoint the significance in both its faithfulness to the original and its deviations from it. Because—if this was meant to be a “faithful” adaptation, the first English-language one to date—then particular attention needs to be paid to instances of “unfaithfulness”.

This meta series will focus primarily on reading queerness among the core characters through narrative, visual, and thematic cues—with specific sections for the characters of William Blore and Emily Brent as well as notes on various moments of queerness between other members of this doomed island party and thoughts on queer subtext in Christie’s overall body of work.

So strap in—it’s going to be one hell of a seaside holiday!


	2. Subtext, Coding, and Queerness in Christie’s Canon

Before we dive into the choppy waters off the Devon coast, we should first examine some further vocabulary and context which will be relevant to this meta series.

First and foremost, the distinction between queer subtext and queer coding must be noted. Queer subtext traditionally refers to non-explicit queerness ascribed to characters with heroic and/or (more commonly) neutral connotations. [Queer coding](http://theroguefeminist.tumblr.com/post/56658099133/queer-codedqueer-coding) refers to the entrenched practice of non-explicit queerness being ascribed primarily to villainous and amoral characters and/or conflating implied queerness with villainy, moral decay, and deserved tragedy. Both queer subtext and queer coding have a long history in media; many film historians cite the Motion Picture Production Code (or [Hays Code](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FMotion_Picture_Production_Code&t=NzE4MGVhNDYyNWNkODlkMmNhN2ZmN2ZkYThjYzIzY2I5MWUxYjAyNixFTlY1Q2JPYw%3D%3D))—which Hollywood operated under from 1930 to 1968—as the driving force in mandating that queerness remain _subtextual_ rather than textual. However, the abandonment of the Code did little to curb the coding of cinematic villains as queer (primarily through a conflation with gendered norms). Indeed, the “queer” (read: fey/effeminate male or butch/masculine female) movie villain is [a trope that has persisted well into the 21st century](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Ftvtropes.org%2Fpmwiki%2Fpmwiki.php%2FMain%2FSissyVillain&t=NGFjZDQ2YjFhYzhiZTdkYmU0OWIwMjUzMGZhNGU2ODY4ZWRjZTkwMSxFTlY1Q2JPYw%3D%3D) despite consistent assertions that it is entrenched in homophobic and sexist stereotypes.

For a much more thorough and nuanced investigation into the history of queer subtext in western—predominantly American—cinema up through 1996 as well as the tropes and techniques employed (especially during the Hays Code era), you should check out Vito Russo’s celebrated non-fiction book and subsequent documentary [_The Celluloid Closet_](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FThe_Celluloid_Closet&t=OWYxMzBhN2RjZTczMWVhZDhiOTlmZDMzMzZiNjVhMjJiYTdmMjNiNSxFTlY1Q2JPYw%3D%3D).

[1996 Documentary Film Poster]

Keeping these definitions in mind, queer subtext in a work like “And Then There Were None” could potentially be construed as queer coding—in that the characters with queer subtext are also murderers. Of course, everyone in the story is a murderer (or at least complicit in murder) so to require immoral characters not have any queer subtext would leave _no_ characters left to explore queerness with. Likewise, issue could be taken with queerness being bound up in certain characters’ motivations for murder; the argument would be that neutral queerness (e.g. casual mention of a same-sex partner back home unrelated to the character’s criminal past) would be better representation than the negative implication of murderers lashing out due to repressed same-sex desires. Again, this would be a more pointed concern if the queer characters were the primary villains—and if an equal number of the alleged murders had not been motivated by opposite-sex desires. While two characters and their alleged crimes can be linked to queerness (Blore and Brent), at least two other characters and their alleged crimes can be linked to heterosexuality (MacArthur and Claythorne). Furthermore, two other characters are in a heterosexual marriage and committed their crime together (Rogers and Mrs. Rogers) so a theory could be put forth that this miniseries suggests opposite-sex desires and societal institutions are equally as toxic as—if not more toxic than—queerness and queer desires.

Ultimately though, the argument against queerness being aligned with negative traits is a valid one that must be acknowledged in a story such as this (with no truly positive characters available to alternately embody queerness in the text). The married characters’ murder was not motivated by sexual desires, and neither were the remaining four characters’ murders. The sexuality and relationship status of those four characters (Lombard, Armstrong, Marston, and Wargrave) are never revealed, and thus all of them could be read as silently and neutrally queer. The only one who engages explicitly in heterosexual acts is Lombard, but that in no way negates his potential (and subtextual) queerness. Indeed, at least three of these four characters have moments of queer subtext throughout the episodes which are distinctly separate from their homicidal histories (although they remain rather terrible people overall, as the narrative requires them to be). But implications and subtext will always be matched on a vastly unequal playing field with normative and assumed identities and desires. The assumption of heterosexuality for all characters—unless explicitly stated/shown or strongly implied to not be the case—remains a default for many creators and audience members. So, regardless of whether there is any explicit proof of heterosexuality in those four undefined characters, without any scenes of outright queerness (e.g. the aforementioned same-sex partner scenario) they will by and large be assumed to be straight rather than not.

All of this is to demonstrate that, while I do not believe and will not be arguing that “And Then There Were None” engages in queer coding, it is not unproblematic in its portrayals of queerness. Then again, there are no representations of non-normative characters and storylines that are met with universal approval and to defend a work against every possible criticism is futile. These points are meant only to present multiple possible readings for a complicated (and unresolved) issue that is often positioned at the core of any queering textual projects in hopes of being able to move forward on a more solid critical foundation.

It should also be clarified that when I refer to “queerness” in my meta, it is not a subscription to the monosexual binary (“straight” vs. “gay”). Queerness and queer subtext can and often does exist concurrently with opposite-sex desires and acts. The aim of these essays is not to “prove” certain characters’ concrete identities as gay or lesbian—that is not a useful objective. Rather, my intention is to illuminate queerness in the broadest sense: moments of and sustained character arcs concerned with non-heterosexuality (herein defined as continuous monogamous sexual desires and acts between a cisgender female and a cisgender male)—which could be variantly termed in our modern identity vocabularies as gayness, lesbianism, bisexuality, pansexuality, asexuality, and any number of other sexuality categorizations along with the corresponding romantic and platonic desire categories. I will not be discussing trans* readings explicitly here (although I am extremely open to engagements on those themes) but I will be exploring intersections between queer sexuality readings and gendered norms and expressions as presented in the miniseries.

Queer subtext can be found in almost every genre, but the examples that always seem to hold the most fascination for viewers and critics alike are usually within [“macho”](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Flistverse.com%2F2014%2F12%2F12%2F10-macho-blockbusters-with-hidden-homoeroticism%2F&t=ZDFjNzQ0MDMwODUxMjYzZGFkZDg0NmU3NmQ2YjAzM2E5ZTQ2MThmOCxFTlY1Q2JPYw%3D%3D) (read: hyper-masculine, which has continuously been erroneously conflated with pristinely heterosexual) films. The horror genre is an interesting asterisk to that category; modern horror movies tend to be marketed toward people who wish to prove their absence and dismissal of “weak” emotional responses (e.g. people who can watch extreme gore/violence/terror without visibly being affected by it)—indeed, these “strong” viewer characteristics are almost exclusively gendered male and men who cannot stomach horror movies are frequently derided as masculine-deficient. But historical horror—dating back to gothic thrillers and romances which relied heavily on psychological tension; a genre whose core founders were female and/or queer creators—often utilized thematic elements of non-normative gender and sexuality as part of their coding of monstrosity. Following this heritage, [earlier horror films](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.autostraddle.com%2Ftop-five-classic-horror-films-with-queer-subtext-311194%2F&t=ZDNjNzA4MzIzZGYyMTBiYWI3MjQ3Yjg0NzU1ZDk4OGMxODNhN2UyZCxFTlY1Q2JPYw%3D%3D) were saturated with queer subtext and—more frequently—queer (primarily female) villain coding. As a writer of mysteries with psychological elements during the Hays Code era, Christie was clearly influenced by both the gothic traditions of the genre and the contemporary tropes and techniques of queer subtext.

Although it was by no means a major element of her body of work or the most frequent social issue that she engaged with (her stories tangled far more often with classism, ethnocentrism, colonialism, and occasionally with racism) queerness was not absent in Christie’s writing. Although there is only one openly gay character in the Christie canon (see: [#6](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.agathachristie.com%2Fabout-christie%2Fchristie-experts%2Fchris-chan-thirteen-things-you-know-about-christie-are-wrong&t=N2YwYmY4OTM4NmY3MDcyYWU0Mjc4ODNiMjk5ODZhNGJhM2M1NWRmMCxFTlY1Q2JPYw%3D%3D)) there are several characters who could be and usually are read as queer. Sometimes they are the murderer (ex. “Nemesis”) but more often than not [they are supporting characters](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fheadmasterrituals.wordpress.com%2F2014%2F06%2F13%2Fqueering-agatha-christie-2%2F&t=ODg4MjlmODQ5NTg2ZmJjMGMxNTFmNTE5Y2UxMjQ0OTMwOTFhZTUyYixFTlY1Q2JPYw%3D%3D) (such as Mr. Pye in “The Moving Finger” or the middle-aged and unmarried Miss Hinchcliffe and Miss Murgatroyd who live together in “A Murder is Announced”). Self-proclaimed “book purists” have [taken issue](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FAgatha_Christie%27s_Marple%23Changes_to_novels&t=M2NkMmVhN2VmYTMwOTE1ZmQ5MTRmZDIwMzQ1NzU1MzlmZThmYmI0NixFTlY1Q2JPYw%3D%3D) with [the recent runs](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fask.metafilter.com%2F112214%2FA-Relationship-Is-Secret&t=N2ZhYmZjZWI5ODdkYzQ1NWRiYzdmNTRhMTE0ZGI4MmIzNDlkNWM5YSxFTlY1Q2JPYw%3D%3D) of _Agatha Christie’s Poirot_ and _Agatha Christie’s Marple_ —two ITV series which adapt novels and stories featuring Christie’s most popular detectives, Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple—for altering characters and/or storylines to include explicit queerness; however, in specific instances these changes were more extensions of subtext already present in the original novel than entirely new additions.

[Miss Hinchcliffe and Miss Murgatroyd from the 1985 Joan Hickson Miss Marple series]

A queer reading of the original novel “And Then There Were None” is less obvious. Arguments could certainly be made for queerness in various characters, but there are no clear narrative and/or characterizational cues to serve as anchor points. It would be a reading of insinuation and vague tension rather than the “evidence” of coded actions and scenes. Prior film adaptations pushed it a bit further: several chose one character in particular—Anthony Marston (or his adapted counterpart)—to explore queerness through the trope of the charming and ambiguous posh playboy, and the [1989 version](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FTen_Little_Indians_%25281989_film%2529&t=YzAxNWU4MjI1MWIxZjYyMTI4NmNiZjFiZjJmZmNlZTc0OTJkY2UzYixFTlY1Q2JPYw%3D%3D) changed Miss Brent’s entire character and backstory from a rigid spinster who is accused of driving her young house maid to suicide to a glamourous younger actress accused of murdering her lesbian lover (with both victims retaining the same name). But it was the 2015 BBC miniseries which ultimately banked on and exploited the subtle language of Hays Code-era subtext to weave more explicit queerness into Christie’s original characters and place queer desires among the various yearnings at the heart of the narrative’s psychology.


	3. Control, Lust, and the Legacy of Predatory Female Same-Sex Desires in Emily Brent (Part One)

“She’s a complete hypocrite. She’s a do-gooder on paper but she’s also a bit repressed and a bit sad.”

 _\- Miranda Richardson on her character Emily Brent [[ **x**](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.mirror.co.uk%2Ftv%2Ftv-previews%2Fwere-none-brings-agatha-christie-7032678&t=YTE1YjQyZjU1NDVkZWJiMGFmZDMyNjczYzc5YjUzMmVkNDMzYmE5YSxyUGp0SW9LZg%3D%3D)]_

The 2015 BBC adaption of “And Then There Were None” presents two sustained and distinct queer character arcs—which are almost entirely absent in the original novel—in the persons of Miss Emily Brent and Detective Sergeant William Blore, played by Miranda Richardson and Burn Gorman respectively. Since Blore’s queering is deployed somewhat more subtly and is revealed over a longer period of time (all three episodes), we will save his analysis for later (multiple) sections. Miss Brent’s queerness is, in many ways, more explicit and easier to pinpoint than Blore’s; it also draws heavily upon imagery long-entrenched in the queer subtext of women in the gothic genre—and make no mistake, this adaptation fit squarely within [that tradition](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FGothic_fiction&t=ZDAzNWU0ZDZjZmFhNmU1NGQwOGY2ODgwNjYzZTM0OWFmZGQxNTllYSxyUGp0SW9LZg%3D%3D).

As mentioned in previous sections, queer coding of female horror villains has a long and storied history. One of the most prevalent themes of both coding and subtext is vampirism, a trope which is firmly rooted in the idea of queer predation. Queerness in women has long been linked with the image of the literal-metaphorical vampire: a tightly controlled, obsessive, and vaguely menacing older and/or higher class woman who takes an increasingly worrying interest in a younger and/or lower class, socially and emotionally-vulnerable girl—a description that could also serve as a succinct summary of Emily Brent’s adaption backstory.

[The first shot of Miss Brent in the 2015 BBC adaption of “And Then There Were None”]

The “lesbian vampire” genre stretches back to Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu’s 1872 novella _[Carmilla](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fthe-toast.net%2F2014%2F05%2F16%2Fcarmilla-original-female-vampire%2F&t=MDc5ZWRiNTQ1NjEzMTc5ZDgwNDFkYTc2MDU1ZmQ2ZjQ2OTE3NzkzZixyUGp0SW9LZg%3D%3D)_ , which set the stage for both a slew of exploitation follow-ups and the development of subtextual cues that would be employed to non-explicitly queer women in gothic horror from then on. Written 26 years before Bram Stoker published _Dracula_ , it is widely considered to have been one of the central influences on what would become the definitive work in the subgenre of vampire fiction. The queering traits of the titular character can continue to be traced through non-vampire gothic works, including Henry James’ _The Turn of the Screw_ and Daphne Du Maurier’s _Rebecca_.

Miss Brent’s personality and motivations, like those of all the core characters in this adaption, are more nuanced than the simplified modern stereotype of the “lesbian vampire”—however, it is clear that she draws purposefully from that tradition. Much of her internal conflict—her hypocrisy—is rooted in the juxtaposition of her maniacal-puritanical religious beliefs with her suppressed desires (the suppression from and ultimate revelation of desires to both the audience and the other characters being one of the driving narrative tools in this miniseries). She is extremely vocal in her professed conservative Christianity and subsequent (at least in her mind) morality, and she uses both of these claimed virtues as the front for her life’s work: The Moral Education of Girls of the Lower Orders. This organization, although topically religiously intolerant and classist, also puts her firmly in a singular position of power over young, lower-class, socially and emotionally-vulnerable girls. Her entire professional and personal life then revolves around the same predatory behaviours which—regardless of Miss Brent’s consciousness of what is truly compelling her actions—form the modus operandi of the lesbian vampire.

Although the character analogous to Miss Brent has—at least in one instance—been given an explicitly lesbian backstory (“Ten Little Indians” [1989]), the character in the novel is presented as much more of a religious/moral hypocrite and a cruel, callous, and prideful person than a sexually-infused predator. The narrative observations, told either from a distanced third person omniscient point of view or the third person limited point of view of Vera Claythorne, mark contempt and horror at her remorseless sense of superiority and her conviction in the rightness of her actions. Miss Claythorne describes, after Miss Brent explains the circumstances surrounding Beatrice Taylor’s suicide, the scene as such:

_“There was no self-reproach, no uneasiness in those eyes. They were hard and self-righteous. Emily Brent sat on the summit of [Solider] Island, encased in her own armour of virtue.”_

Compare this to the expressions that cross Emily Brent’s face at the same moment in the miniseries and it becomes clear that the Miss Brent of this adaption is much more shaken in her “armour of virtue”. She makes a sharp rebuke to Miss Claythorne’s implication that she has any culpability in Beatrice Taylor’s death and then brusquely changes the subject ( _“[She asked you for help. If you had helped her—]/It was the weakness of her character which drove her actions. Why should I be reproached?”_ ), before physically turning away and cutting off the conversation. Yet she looks slumped and defensive, not making eye contact with Miss Claythorne or the audience and the shot is framed wide and off-center—which undercuts the authority of her supposed reproachlessness. Here her façade is crumbling, and it is exposing the regret, sorrow, and fear beneath.

[Miss Brent after her revelation to Miss Claythorne in Episode 2]

There are a few more minor differences between the novel’s Miss Brent and the Miss Brent of this adaption, although not all of them are relevant to our meta here. In the novel, Beatrice Taylor is entrusted to Miss Brent by her parents who are “decent” but poor; Beatrice’s pregnancy comes as a shock to them as well and they also refuse to help her; the multiple rejections ultimately lead to her drowning herself. The adaptional changes move this backstory closer to the predatory subtexts of metaphorical vampirism by removing the stability of Beatrice’s upbringing and having her parents be absent altogether (either by death or abandonment)—which in turn gives Beatrice no options beyond Miss Brent for comfort, support, sustenance, or (parental) love.

But perhaps we’ve gotten a bit ahead of ourselves, starting more or less at the end of Miss Brent’s narrative arc. Unlike Blore—whose queerness is more frequently vectored through his interactions with the other nine guests—Miss Brent’s queerness is only hinted at in her actions on the island. Similarly, her queerness is (mostly) singularly-vectored; that is, we understand her queerness through a sustained and long-term bond with one person (Beatrice Taylor) rather than in response to multiple characters. This is probably what makes queerness bearable to her—or at least what allows her to reconstruct her feelings for Beatrice as something other than the queerness that would be so morally, socially, and religiously unacceptable to her own sense of self. But the editing choices belie her denial: both Miss Brent and DS Blore’s first appearances (during the opening/letter montage) are shots from their flashbacks/backstories—the only two characters for whom this is true (excluding Vera, who is introduced independently of the rest). The first thing the audience sees, the image that is associated with these characters’ identities from the start, is the moment when their queerness and the violence which has ensnared them in U.N. Owen’s web intersected. But these shots are presented without context, so it is not until much later that the viewer is able to recognize their significance.

As with all the characters, Miss Brent arrives at Solider Island with a carefully-constructed persona which will slowly be chipped away until it all but unravels. Her particular persona is that of the serenely self-righteous matron, but before she has a chance to deploy it with the other guests she shares a private scene with one of the only other two women in the house. Her early conversation with Ethel Rogers can be read several ways, and the first response it generally provokes is one of anger: In her prying, haughty remarks towards a servant, Miss Brent exposes herself as both vicious and smug without having any outward indication that she feels bad for her behaviour. It can be seen as arrogant, classist, and passive-aggressive—but doesn’t her reaction to Mrs. Rogers also feel a bit strong? Isn’t the audience left with a sense of predatory danger that they can’t quite place? The score—a soft, low-string ambient vibration that starts up whenever something mundane shifts towards the potentially ominous (particularly before the record is played and the characters, along with any viewers unfamiliar with the story, don’t know quite what is being set up yet)—certainly amps up this creeping unease, but it only teases out what is already happening.

The scene begins with explicitly submissive positioning: Mrs. Rogers on her knees at Miss Brent’s (seated) feet, and remaining on the floor for longer than is strictly necessary. Miss Brent asks her about her eye problem, looking down at her with the sort of fondness a ruler might have for an obedient subject. Mrs. Rogers answers willingly at first, but then refuses to give more details (she repeats, _“Beggin’ your pardon, madam, I don’t [know]”_ ). This seems to infuriate Miss Brent—a younger, lower class, socially and emotionally-vulnerable woman could be an ideal surrogate for Miss Brent’s attentions (even those casually bestowed during a short business trip), but she cannot be allowed to stand up to Miss Brent in any way. More than just castigating an insubordinate servant, Miss Brent changes the subject to a broader sort of lecture—telling Mrs. Rogers the sort of woman she should be (the sort of woman that Miss Brent would like her to be). But that is not enough; Mrs. Rogers must be manipulated into becoming attached to Miss Brent and Miss Brent must retain complete control throughout the process. So she is insulted—belittled under the guise of private advice when Miss Brent tells her that she should put on some eau de cologne before she comes up from the kitchen (which, importantly, it is not a _public_ humiliation)—only to be later _publically_ praised when Miss Brent compliments her cooking in front of Miss Claythorne. Mrs. Rogers’ reaction is exactly what Miss Brent wants: shock, confusion, and rushing gratitude. She is left unbalanced and—already in a tenuous emotional state under her domineering husband—is primed to be manipulated into a predatory relationship with Miss Brent. Not a same-sex romance or even a long-term companionship like with Beatrice Taylor—but for as long as they are together (and both alive) on the island, Mrs. Rogers’ striking similarities to her preferred “type” dictate how Miss Brent interacts with her.

[The first “bedroom” scene between Miss Brent and Mrs. Rogers]

[Miss Brent complimenting Mrs. Rogers on her dinner]

Of course, Mrs. Rogers is dead by the following morning so the viewer has no way of knowing how that hypothetical relationship could have continued to play out. But even with the brief moments they share, Miss Brent reveals her predatory nature both psychologically and physically—along with her suppressed desires; it is a physical action that, in her full flashback, drives home the queer subtext of her character. But there is another physical action that serves as a bookend here: her touching of Mrs. Rogers in the bedroom scene. The moment of insult is punctuated by infringing physical closeness (Miss Brent never comes anywhere near that close to another character on the island) and oddly affectionate and intimate touches (her hands on Mrs. Rogers’ cheeks). It is an act of claiming ownership and dominance, as well as an act of desire—one that is repeated in her flashback with Beatrice Taylor.

[Miss Brent brushes Mrs. Rogers’ cheeks while humiliating her]

[It is an act that Mrs. Rogers—and the audience—are deeply uncomfortable with]

These parallels between the Ethel Rogers and Beatrice Taylor scenes can be lost upon an initial viewing, but become apparent in retrospect. Miss Brent makes a few halting attempts at instigating the same sort of dynamic with Miss Claythorne (as a younger and lower-positioned secretary) but Miss Claythorne’s personality does not allow her to get very far with it, and she is left without another woman on the island to vector her desires towards.

Women, however, are by no means the only people whom Miss Brent interacts with on Solider Island; a comparison of her dealings with the male characters—as well as a more thorough analysis of her flashback scene—will be our next meta stop.


	4. Control, Lust, and the Legacy of Predatory Female Same-Sex Desires in Emily Brent (Part Two)

If—in her interactions with most of the younger women in this adaptation—Miss Brent reveals herself to be a kindred of the lesbian vampire, her interactions with the men on the island appear profoundly desireless by comparison. In a clear extension of her morally irreproachable persona, she never initiates any public physicalities with anyone beyond a few polite handshakes. Although a (far from universally agreed upon) argument could be made that—in this time period—it would be more socially acceptable for two women (or two men) to engage in intimate public gestures than it would be for a man and a woman to do so, the fact that she makes an effort to exploit a private situation with another woman but never shows any interest in even entering into a private situation with a man belies the queering contradictions at the core of her real self.

Desire, however, is only one aspect of her manipulation tactics; control—as discussed in the previous section—is equally (if not more) important to Emily Brent. Her methods of controlling men fit in the same vein as the ones she uses to control women: condescending, insulting, and belittling those younger and/or in a socially-inferior position to her (without the accompanying sexual undertones). The audience never sees her interact with an older and/or more socially-powerful woman, perhaps because—beyond the restraints of the plot—such women would not be objects of desire for her and thus she would not seek them out. But on Solider Island she _is_ forced to interact with older/contemporary men who are either her social equals or her social superiors; the most revealing of these interactions (in terms of juxtaposition) is the one that she develops with the good-natured General MacArthur.

[Miss Brent practices social pleasantries with General MacArthur at the first dinner]

For as long as they are both alive on the island, Miss Brent seems to focus particular attention on General MacArthur. They sit together during both of the official meals (before the true gravity of the situation is realized) and she pays him several compliments which—unlike the backhanded comments she makes to the others—seem to be genuine. She contradicts his own self-deprecating remark during the first dinner ( _“I was probably a rather dull boy.”_ / _”I really can’t imagine that, General.”_ ) and recommends him as a mediator in the breakfast argument over bag searches with the claim that he is _“an honourable man”_. She also directs several quips at him during dinner, leaning in conspiratorially and establishing the most physical intimacy that she ever initiates with a man in the series. For his part, MacArthur seems polite and friendly in his responses (as he generally is with everyone) but uninterested in instigating anything further; perhaps it is because of this disinterest which Miss Brent senses in him that she decides to select him as the “safest” possible target of her social attentions.

Now compare these actions—demurring and almost flirtatious (in the style of submissive social pleasantries that women are trained to engage in with men)—with the predatory and sexually-infused behaviour she exhibits with Mrs. Rogers. Both are calculated measures for control: the former serves as an ego stroke meant to inspire loyalty and protectiveness while the latter establishes dominance and ultimately (as discussed in Part One) demands emotional subservience and dependence. Both methods allow Miss Brent to get what she wants—control over others; the core difference is that one is social and public the other is sexual and private.

This difference becomes even more pronounced when her interactions with the other men on the island are examined. While she shows appropriate (if not demonstrative) respect for Judge Wargrave and—at least at first—pleasantly patronizes DS Blore and Dr. Armstrong, the contempt she has for Anthony Marston and Philip Lombard (and later Rogers, as fear replaces the classist disregard she has for him—but notably _not_ his wife, towards whom she displays authentic concern for when she faints in the kitchen—as a servant rather than a person) is explicit from the start. A speculative argument could be made that her aggression towards Marston and Lombard stems subconsciously from the threat they pose as potential competitors for the type of younger women she is attracted to. Prior to the revelations on the record (and prior even to the rude comments that Marston makes at dinner), Miss Brent seems to want as little as possible to do with either of the two youngest and most conventionally attractive men in the house.

Once the record is played, Miss Brent’s disgust is made explicit. In a response to Lombard’s dismissal of his crime, she declares: _“Terrible man. You terrible, terrible man! It’s people like you—_ men _like you—that put our missionaries in such danger.”_ Her reaction is clearly coloured by her religious and moral beliefs, but her correction is also subtextually telling; she is perfectly willing to demean and degrade young women—particularly poor, lower-class young women—until they met her exacting standards for sexual decency, but she is repulsed by their sexually-virile male counterparts.

So now let’s return to the person at the heart of Miss Brent’s story: Beatrice Taylor. It’s a story that Miss Brent omits after the record, refusing to make it public. She shares it with only one other person, the only other woman alive on the island: Miss Claythorne.

[Miss Brent calls a less-then-eager Miss Claythorne over to confide in her;  
*note the hat—it will return again later*]

[Miss Brent recounts Beatrice Taylor’s story with a distanced coldness]

Miss Brent frames her role in Beatrice’s death—in the murder that she is being accused of—as a duty from the start. Her justification as to why the entire accusatory premise of U.N. Owen is wrong is that everyone was _“doing their duty”_ but then she immediately contradicts herself by making exceptions for Lombard, Marston, and Rogers (in a harkening back to Lombard’s claim that he’s _“the only one telling the truth in a room full of liars”_ ). As she segues into her backstory, the audience learns for the first time who Beatrice Taylor was, in the eyes of the woman who killed her: _“A foundling girl—an unwanted. From the war, you know? I believed her to be a clean, decent, modest girl. I taught her needlework skills. We had quite the little home.”_

Miss Brent’s words—the only aspect of this retelling that she has control over—paint a proper and charitable picture, which is no doubt how she has convinced herself to see it, while notably objectifying the girl as a discarded item. But the flashback images that only the viewer is privy to reveal what is seeping out of the cracks of her façade and mark what is abhorrent in this relationship: Beatrice Taylor is a very young woman—a girl, really, who is made to look no older than fifteen or sixteen (the actress is 22). For the audience then, the coding is not that queerness is dangerous or predatory but that Miss Brent has—probably through her years of rigourous denial and repression—vectored her desires towards a child.

[Miss Brent leans in to hold and suck Beatrice Taylor’s bleeding finger]

[Beatrice—and the audience—are confused and alarmed by Miss Brent’s violating behaviour]

In the most explicit moment of queerness in the series—and in a direct homage to literal vampirism—Miss Brent sucks blood from Beatrice’s finger after the girl pricks it doing needlework. The editing and cinematography (slow motion and soft filters) as well as the unnerving eye contact and the way that Miss Brent lingers with the finger in her mouth, all act as visual cues for sexual predation. Miss Brent’s expressions shift with the scene as well, looping from a self-satisfied smile (the same shot that introduced the viewer to her at the beginning of the series) to concern for Beatrice’s pain to a desire-laden stare. Conversely, Beatrice’s expressions change from obediently focused on her sewing to a deeply uncomfortable—but ultimately helpless—recoil, one that is purposefully echoed in the bedroom scene with Mrs. Rogers. Here the implication of their “little home” is understood clearly to be one neither of patronage nor charity, but rather of (at least in Miss Brent’s repressed subconscious) romantic domesticity.

The vibrant yellows of the field switch abruptly to a dim and muted palate as that domesticity is shattered both literally and metaphorically by Beatrice’s vectoring of her sexual desires away from Emily Brent: _“But then she got herself into trouble, in the family way. As her own loose mother had with her. She begged me for help. Naturally—and quite properly—I refused.”_ The verbal telling is calm and composed, full of the appropriate amount of disappointment and disapproval. But again, it is visually that we gain a more accurate knowledge of the true events. The flashback is dreary and violent; Miss Brent drags Beatrice by her hair out of the house into a torrential rainstorm and throws her to the ground (an action that would be vicious for anyone, but could be especially harmful for a young pregnant girl). Beatrice’s face remains illuminated and a rainbow arches in the corner of the frame (both indicators of innocence and goodness) as she begs ( _“Please, Miss Brent! I beg you!”_ ) for forgiveness. This should be what Miss Brent wants; she has conditioned a socially and emotionally-vulnerable young woman to be entirely dependent on her, unable to leave of her own will. But her sexual jealousy is too strong, and she can no longer accept Beatrice—who was supposed to be kept pure through her strict moral and religious doctrines—as an object of desire now that there is visible proof of her sexual activity. So, with a bible in hand and her face in shadows, Emily Brent brutally and physically expels Beatrice Taylor from her house and her life—and in doing so severs all the ties she has left for comfort, support, sustenance, and love.

[Miss Brent viciously lashes out at the girl when she learns that Beatrice is pregnant]

[Beatrice desperately calls out to the woman who has promised to take care of her]

[Miss Brent’s revulsion belies her sorrow at losing the person towards whom her love and desires had been vectored]

The result is unsurprising but still shocking, particularly in Miss Brent’s refusal to accept any responsibility. The viewer shares Miss Claythorne’s disgust as Miss Brent finishes:

Claythorne: _“[What happened to her?]”_

Brent: _“She threw herself under a train.”_

Claythorne: _“[She killed herself?]”_

Brent: _“It even made the local paper, and they turned it into some pot-boiling, sentimental tale.”_

But this dismissal of the sentimentality that the media infused in Beatrice’s death must be juxtaposed against the dramatic rejection the flashback just showed—most notably, the look of absolute heartbreak on Miss Brent’s face that peers out between the rage and the fury. Sentiment is at the core of this story, and it is out of the perversion and suppression of her queer desires that violence and death intersected with Emily Brent’s life.

With this backstory now revealed to the audience, Miss Brent’s obsession with purity and her conflation of pureness and morality take on a darker tone. Her fixation on the sexual lives of young women and girls—almost exclusively those who are emotionally and socially subservient to her—is most alarmingly evident in her public declaration of her foundation’s mission: _“[Girls of the lower orders] have to be taught modesty and decency, or society will be drowned in a rising tide of unwanted babies—all squalling to be fed.”_ The classism is topical here; her real preoccupation is with young female sexuality and her need to control and vector it exclusively towards herself.

As an intriguing side note, Miss Brent’s claims that Soho (the nexus of U.N. Owen’s pre-island activities) is _“a sink of depravity, a godless desert of vice”_ can be seen as another queered reference since [that district of London](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.timeout.com%2Flondon%2Flgbt%2Fgay-london-in-the-20s&t=MWJjN2JkZTBiYWZhYmI0MDgxZTU2NjFmZGQxMWQzNTg2YWYzZTAyMCxOVDlmaFM4NQ%3D%3D) has long been a hub of and gateway to gay life (as well as an enclaves for actors, writers, and other creative classes).

The final arc of Miss Brent’s devolution occurs once again in the private and intimate space of her bedroom and forces a confrontation between her alleged religious virtues and her guilt over Beatrice’s suicide (and perhaps also her no-longer-tenable denial of her queerness). Beatrice appears as she recites the Lord’s Prayer; her echo rings mockingly against Miss Brent’s frightened whispers. Beatrice turns and looks at her former guardian with a smile that seems to mimic the unwholesomeness of Miss Brent’s first smile in the field. The gruesome sight leaves Miss Brent terrified but she does not lash out at Beatrice—instead she finally shifts her judgment towards internality and collapses upon herself. Beatrice says nothing beyond her parroting of the prayer and the scene cuts away without a clear conclusion; the only facts that can be taken from it are that Miss Brent’s feelings for Beatrice remain (and have always been) strong and that she no longer has control over the relationship—that has moved to the spectral young woman.

[Beatrice’s scarred face serves as a tactile manifestation of Emily Brent’s guilt and shame]

[Miss Brent’s horrified—but not disbelieving—expression at the haunting presence of her dead maid]

[In a moment of self-realization, Miss Brent is left with no one left to judge but herself]

The self-exposure of Miss Brent’s queerness and the loss of her control mark the end of her narrative descent and within a few brief scenes she is dead. The haughty Emily Brent who chastised and lectured her fellow guests just two days earlier seems a distant shell of the skittish, quiet woman who laments losing a ball of wool in a darkened parlour. Her faith—that she is righteous and will be spared, will be saved—is left in tatters as well; she no longer trusts even her confidante Miss Claythorne to not have poisoned her coffee. She has no one left to control and perhaps in her own self-revelations she has lost the desire to control—that was, after all, what cost her the life of the person she seemed to have loved most in the world. Her desires were inappropriate and monstrous, but not because they were queer. She was monstrous because she could not accept and integrate her queerness into her sense of self and instead buried it so completely that it manifested in a predatory obsession with control and youth sexuality. Now that she has seen herself, she can no longer maintain her façade. She is resigned to her fate (if not still afraid) when she asks Miss Claythorne: _“Does this…person….need to kill us all?”_ She is a statue crumbled, a vampire left bloodless. Her last words—and the only time she ever says them sincerely throughout the series—are a soft, _“Thank you, dear.”_

[In her last moments, Miss Brent is left alone and in darkness with her regrets finally admitted]

Miss Brent’s story ends in a tragic whimper, a parable on the toxicity of repression, self-righteousness, and the inability to form a healthy queer relationship. And although both Miss Claythorne and General MacArthur (the two characters with whom Miss Brent feels a sort of kinship, interestingly) embody the dangers of perverted lusts and jealousies, it is only DS Blore who shares the same threads of queerness denied which comes to both define and destroy his life.


	5. Repression, Violence, and Rejection of the Self-Other: An Introduction to DS William Blore

“He’s got these very dark, hidden secrets he is deeply ashamed of.”

_-Burn Gorman on his character Detective Sergeant William Blore [ **[x](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.mirror.co.uk%2Ftv%2Ftv-previews%2Fwere-none-brings-agatha-christie-7032678&t=ZTNlYmIzNzVmOTEzZThkNzIxYzU4NmJiYmEwZGQ5NDQ2ODNkMzhlNCxrTjhucnE4Zw%3D%3D)** ]_

If Miss Brent’s narrative serves as a warning against unhealthy and predatory manifestations of desires (queer or otherwise), DS Blore’s narrative teaches us about the dangers of total denial and repression. While Miss Brent knows and pursues—at least subconsciously and after religious and moral reclassification—her desires, Blore seems to be a person hidden even from himself. His sense of self is so fractured and masked that it is only through interactions with the other characters that we as viewers (and Blore himself) can begin to peel away the layers of his social persona and understand who he really is beneath it.

This metaphorical masking is paralleled with a literal one—he is introduced to the plot and the audience under a false identity. Although we are given both a title (Detective Sergeant William Blore) and a corresponding shot of him during the opening montage, the Blore we subsequently see is both physically different (wearing a distinctive pencil moustache) and using another name (Davis)—although both of these alterations feel more like tenuous ruses, as though in lacking a fully realized self Blore is unable to construct an effective cover identity. Indeed, he doesn’t even seem to have planned a first name for his “Davis” character. From the start then Blore is presented as a man desperately (and ineffectually) playing at what he thinks it means to be upper class, posh, and unquestionably masculine.

[Blore posing as the curt and suspicious Mr. Davis]

Of course, all of the characters arrive on the island bearing secrets and—after they are accused by the anonymous recording of various murders—they all have a vested interest in maintaining their constructed facades. But Blore has two secrets, two pieces of himself that he cannot let slip (to anyone _including_ himself), two separate and autonomous parts of his identity whose integration therein he rejects: his murderous violence and his queerness. Like Miss Brent, his violence belies the toxicity of his repression. And also like Miss Brent, the relationship between his violence and his queerness is not symbiotic; he is not violent because he is queer, nor is he queer because he is violent. It is the unraveling of these two tangled identities encapsulated in the moment of his murder of James Stephen Landor—that of a murderer and that of a queer man—that forms the backbone of Blore’s narrative arc.

[Blore, like Miss Brent, is first shown to the viewer in the flashback that contained the overlap of his queerness and his violence]

But—beyond those topical similarities—queer subtext is deployed differently for Miss Brent than it is for Blore. Whereas Miss Brent reveals herself primarily through the direct exposition and subsequent flashbacks of her backstory, Blore is revealed through his continuous interactions with the people (male and female) on the island. Miss Brent’s central desires were singularly vectored towards Beatrice and can be most thoroughly examined via the glimpses the viewer gets into her past. Blore’s desires, on the other hand, are multiply vectored; with no central past object (i.e. Beatrice) to anchor them, they can only be refracted through the objects who surround him in the present. So while Miss Brent’s queerness-in-backstory comes as a surprise to first-time viewers, Blore’s unrevelation in his own flashback feels like a period punctuating the end of his queer sentence.

However, before we delve more pointedly into the presentation of Blore’s desires in the series, it is necessary to note a critical intersection within his fragmented identities. The conflict and shame that Blore grapples with throughout the series is two-fold: it is not solely in his queerness that he feels alienated from the rest of the guests (staff not included), it is also in his class status. The character of “Davis” is built on the model of a successful and upstanding businessman who—while clearly not aristocratic—is meant to eschew the crass implications of the newly-monied self-made man. His supposed ties to manufacturing (a merchant field associated with the Industrial Revolution and lower-class men being propelled into wealth without the accompanying “breeding”) via his claims of being “in tinned goods” are purposefully offset by his carefully prepared tuxedo and his crisp rehearsed accent. He speaks very little from his introduction through the first island dinner; when he does speak, it always seems to carry a mechanical element. He either parrots back “cultured” opinions that are shared by others or regurgitates from his memorized character fact sheet. He is not a person—even a person in disguise—so much as he is an unsuccessful attempt at personhood. It isn’t until Blore is unmasked by the recording that his natural Estuary influences—and a fraught but genuine personality—begin to appear.

[The act of “Davis” is one that Blore desperately wants to achieve, but is ultimately wholly unable to even mimic]

These moments of counterfeited class are undermined visually as well as narratively, in particular with the stain that appears on his dress shirt after dinner and throughout the initial group interrogation scene. It isn’t a large stain and the audience might be tempted to write it off as an accident—but with the amount of time and attention to detail that went into the [production design](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DuleAGBN7HAQ&t=MzczODU0MjY5NGQ4YTkxMDMwOWZmYjIzODVkM2RhNzIwZmU1NDc2ZixrTjhucnE4Zw%3D%3D) and [costuming](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DwfC8xj2J6oQ&t=MTliMzg0MGZmMjVmZmM5NDg5MzQ2OTI5NTUxYTQ3NWUxNzY4YjhmZSxrTjhucnE4Zw%3D%3D) for the series, it seems extraordinary that such a mistake wouldn’t be caught, much less that it would be replicated exactly during several different scenes. With a cast full of impeccable outfits and appearances (at least before the bodies start dropping), this sort of addition feels both purposeful and pointed—as a commentary on Blore’s inability to maintain his aspired-to facades. He betrays himself almost immediately, and the proof is in the food stain on his shirt front.

[The yellow shirt front stain appears consistently after dinner, through the recording and subsequent discussions]

[Once his false identity is exposed, Blore reverts back to a less polished but equally aggressive physical presentation of masculinity and authority]

Now to examine Blore’s self-revealed queerness on its own gives an incomplete picture, but it is only through his self-revelations that—as with Miss Brent—the viewer first becomes aware of it. The picture is completed (or at least filled out) through revisiting his vectors of desire with other characters, but that can only be done in retrospect. First, we must watch Blore—subconsciously or not—uncover himself with his chosen words, his personal assertions, and his doctored memories of his crime.

Blore is the character who deviates the most explicitly from his novel counterpart: he is presented as younger in the series than is implied by the book and is portrayed as more competent in his job as a detective. Although many of the characters are less nuanced in the novel (it would be quite a feat to write ten deeply multifaceted main characters _and_ a shocking murder mystery all in under 200 pages), Blore is arguably positioned as the resident comedic relief. His bickering with Lombard is more patronizing than oddly affectionate and his stubbornness paints him as an outdated old man with a habit of making jarring exclamations (his last words are a shouted, _“I get it!”_ to no one as he stands on the outdoor patio—right before his skull is caved in by a bear-shaped marble clock dropped with suspicious accuracy from a second story window). While he certainly has dramatic and unnerving moments as well, the trope of the bumbling police officer seems to have been specifically sown into him and was definitely played up in subsequent adaptations.

The series’ Blore—although still toeing the absurd line with his more hysterical outbursts—is given far more gravity. One of the main distinctions (specifically concerning his professional competence) comes from his altered backstory. In the novel, Blore accepted bribes from a criminal organization to falsify his testimony against an innocent man (James Landor) who was sentenced to life in prison based heavily on Blore’s statements. Landor, who was not a particularly sturdy man, died in prison shortly after beginning his sentence and left behind a wife and daughter. The bribe that Blore took was both monetary and promotional—he gained a higher rank in the police force because of it. This, of course, further substantiates the idea that Blore is both incompetent and corrupt as an investigator. In fact, it isn’t until the final night that Blore even remembers what Landor looked like—his memory isn’t altered out of repression but rather from an utter lack of concern for the wrongly-condemned man whose death he had a major role in:

_“Strangely enough, he found the darkness disquieting. It was as though a thousand age-old fears awoke and struggled for supremacy in his brain […] Another face—pale, spectacled, with a small straw-coloured moustache…A face he had seen sometime or other—but when? Not on the island. No, much longer ago than that._

_Funny, that he couldn’t put a name to it…Silly sort of face really—fellow looked a bit of a mug._

_Of course!_

_It came to him with a real shock._

_Landor!_

_Odd to think he’d completely forgotten what Landor looked like. Only yesterday he’d been trying to recall the fellow’s face, and hadn’t been able to._

_Landor had had a wife—a thin slip of a woman with a worried face. There’d been a kid too, a girl about fourteen. For the first time, he wondered what had become of them…”_

Although both Blores take a while to more fully recall their victims, the novel presents him as a callous and thoughtless man driven to recollection because he is being tried for his life based on this crime. Otherwise, Landor seems to be as far from the forefront of his mind as anything could be. In the series, however, the spectre of Landor—and all the implications that he carries—seems to shadow Blore from the start. As with Miss Brent, the first shot of Blore that the audience is shown is from the scene with Landor—but unlike her, it is the pivotal moment of Blore’s choice that will imminently lead to Landor’s murder.

[From the first queries about his crime, Blore demonstrates an outwardly offended bluster followed instantly by a barely-concealed wash of insecurity and shame]

Both Landor’s character and Blore’s crime are largely rewritten for this series—with malicious perjury leading to indirect death changed to a visceral stomping to death in a cell, and a middle-aged man with a wife and child changed to a young gay man brought in on [cottaging charges](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FCottaging&t=MThlZDRkMDEwNmI1Yjk0ZmM5ODdkYWY5OWE4NzA2ZTRiYzFlNTRlMCxrTjhucnE4Zw%3D%3D). Thus the focus of Blore’s backstory shifts from his ethical weakness to the reasons behind his brutal homophobia.

[Blore maintains a defensive stance when challenged by Lombard about his role in Landor’s death]

[The absolute disconnect between Blore’s claims and his memory are captured in the juxtaposition between his assertion that Landor _“fell down the steps into his cell”_ and the visual of a blood-soaked Landor being attacked]

[Blore’s expression during the stomping is one of viciously unhinged rage, at total odds with his terse but relatively calm fake retellings]

[The implications of a possible sexual—as well as a physical—assault perpetrated by Blore on Landor are hinted at with Landor’s prone positioning and expanded upon in Blore’s final flashback]

[Blore’s post-memory expression belies his guilt, fear, shame, and fracturing denial]

The trope of the [dangerously homophobic closeted queer man](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Ftvtropes.org%2Fpmwiki%2Fpmwiki.php%2FMain%2FArmouredClosetGay&t=ZWFmM2YwYzdjNDQ5YTFlMjhjYjE3YTk4ZWY4M2U3ZDRhZDY4NzUyZCxrTjhucnE4Zw%3D%3D) has a tumultuous history; academics and fans continue to debate on both [its potential ties to reality](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.scientificamerican.com%2Farticle%2Fhomophobes-might-be-hidden-homosexuals%2F&t=ZmZjZTJmZTUxZmNlMDMyYzc2YWRmZmQyZjFjYzQ0OGQzNDE5M2ViZixrTjhucnE4Zw%3D%3D) and the harmful stereotypes that its consistent and unquestioned use reinforces. Particularly in media set in the modern day, such a character often comes off as a toxic relic—and the toxicity is exacerbated when the media either explicitly or implicitly conflates sympathy for the character with justification for their actions. But our case with Blore is not quite as simple, since his actions are explicitly condemned while his villainy is specifically kept separate from his queerness. In many ways, his narrative arc throughout the series is centered around the eventual self-acceptance of his queerness via his final act of taking accountability for his crime and facing his death directly.

[Blore’s final act of violence is against himself as he channels his rage into confronting the finally-revealed Mr. Owen]

But is a closeted homophobe in 1939 just another characterizational cop-out? On top of his class differences, Blore and the rest of the guests exist in a U.K. governed by the **[Criminal Law Amendment Act](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FCriminal_Law_Amendment_Act_1885&t=MjkzMDU0OTAwNDdlNGQ5ZTI2MDA5ZjA5YzhlMDBhYzA1NDE0ZjQzNCxrTjhucnE4Zw%3D%3D)** which—among other things—recriminalized male homosexuality (an amendment was introduced in 1921 to make sexual “acts of indecency” between women illegal as well, but it was defeated in the House of Lords and never became law). There had been famous prosecutions under that law already (most notably with Oscar Wilde) and—although niche queer social and activist groups had begun cropping up—visible gay culture was associated mainly with the upper and creative classes. A working-class police officer and public servant like Blore would presumably have had a far more difficult time integrating a positive queer affiliation with his worldview; it is clear that—filtered through his memory, his language, and his own personality—queerness is inextricably linked with perversity, effeminacy, and criminality.

These themes are repeatedly teased out over the course of the episodes—for a production example, the viewers need look no further than the casting of Blore’s actor (Burn Gorman). Gorman is noticeably slighter than almost all of the other actors; his outfits—though well-tailored—at times seem to be almost half a size too big. He’s shorter as well, with features that are much more delicate than classically chiseled. Even his much-maligned pencil moustache is ostensibly part of his initial “Davis” act, an attempt to [recreate the “suave” look of a film leading man](https://twitter.com/lifetimetv/status/705880038810333184). All of these physical traits align him with androgynous femininity over traditional masculinity—which is precisely the sort of effeminate coding that he so vehement lashes out against in his retellings of Landor. Although he first describes Landor as a “degenerate and a drunk” (“degenerate” already being code for some sort of moral-sexual indecency) during the post-recording discussion, the next time the boy comes up he is a “pansy” whose meaning of an [“effeminate homosexual man](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.etymonline.com%2Findex.php%3Fallowed_in_frame%3D0%26search%3Dpansy&t=N2FmNjI5MTMwNTg5ZjY5MTNlN2MzZjI2YzlmYTdlMDQzODU5ZDIxMCxrTjhucnE4Zw%3D%3D)” had its first recorded usage in 1929. He counters Philip Lombard’s question of never having laid a hand on Landor (which, in the context of the scene, can be read with violent/murderous implications before sexual ones) with: _“I wouldn’t want to be near one of them dirty bastards.”_ Again, he betrays himself in his denial—the constant escalation of his claims against Landor (and “those sorts”) coupled with his visibly hesitant and frightened facial expressions uncover everything Blore is desperate to conceal, above all from himself.

[The force of Blore’s repression rips him psychologically apart, until he is physically unable to stave off acknowledging what he did and reconciling the reasons behind it]

In his physicality as well as his explanations (Blore is the only character to repeatedly change his account of his crime), Blore embodies and exposes all the things he has conditioned himself to hate—all of the characteristics he has made analogous with queerness. Even his casual language—another purposeful choice by the screenwriter—is littered with subtextual instances of his queerness leaking out. One of the most intriguing examples is Blore’s use of swears; he is the only character who uses several distinctive words with queer etymologies. He repeatedly uses the word “bugger”, first in response to Lombard’s claim of smelling almonds on Marston’s mouth ( _“Almonds be buggered—cyanide.”_ ) and later to suspiciously describe Rogers ( _“He’s an oily bugger, slinkin’ around.”_ ). “Bugger” is noted as coming from the term for a [“sodomite” from the 1550s](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.etymonline.com%2Findex.php%3Fterm%3Dbugger%26allowed_in_frame%3D0&t=OWIyM2E0OGMwNDYzNjllN2IzMGM0M2QzNzQ2OTUxZDU3YTZkM2MxNSxrTjhucnE4Zw%3D%3D) (and earlier “heretic” (mid-14th century.), from Medieval Latin Bulgarus “a Bulgarian”, so called from bigoted notions of the sex lives of Eastern Orthodox Christians or of the sect of heretics that was prominent there in the 11th century). Buggery was [defined under U.K. law](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FBuggery&t=NzUxZWJhZjBjZjY3YWY3ZWM2YjU5YWMwNGJlZTMwODNjNTMzN2M2ZCxrTjhucnE4Zw%3D%3D) as “anal intercourse or oral intercourse by a man with a man or woman or vaginal intercourse by either a man or a woman with an animal” and is usually considered colloquially synonymous with anal intercourse. Blore also uses “sod” when he denies having stolen and hidden Lombard’s gun ( _“I never killed Rogers, and I ain’t got your key or your soddin’ gun!”_ ) which is noted as [“[a] term of abuse, 1818, short for sodomite”](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.etymonline.com%2Findex.php%3Fterm%3Dsod&t=MjVjMzJjYjlmZmZhYjZjODQ5ZTNjOGQ2MDg1YWY1NDM5ODljYmEwNSxrTjhucnE4Zw%3D%3D). Sodomy was [originally legally and colloquially defined](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FSodomy&t=MjgyZDQwN2ZiN2U0NDMzNzNhYWYyMmUxY2EzMmQ0ZmNiZTIxMTY3MCxrTjhucnE4Zw%3D%3D) as anal intercourse, although it was sometimes used to encompass bestiality and any non-procreative sexual acts as well, with a “sodomite” being anyone accused of these actions. In popular culture, both bugger/buggery and sodomite/sodomy became predominantly conflated with accusations against male homosexuals and male homosexuality; there are numerous records of men being executed for these alleged crimes in the western (for the purposes of these essays, we are not examining the non-western) world.

So not only is Blore the only character who uses these (or any other queer-affiliated) swears, they end up accounting for most of the swears that he uses overall. He gets a few “fucking”s in and even gets to call Lombard an “arrogant asshole”, which he promptly apologizes for ( _“Oh—bloody hell, sorry Miss Claythorne…”_ ) but the contrast between his language and the language of the others remains stark. The other guests use mostly “damn” and “bloody” which, again, can also be class indicators—but giving a conflictedly homophobic character specifically queer-coded language seems far too convenient to be a coincidence. Blore bleeds his queerness out between gritted teeth, to the point where even his clever quips sound more like unintentional innuendos:

Halfway through episode two—in the wake of the murder of General MacArthur—Blore shudders as Rogers leaves the room after gamely offering to try and make a kidney pie for dinner. Convinced that he is the murderous Owen, Blore proclaims: _“I ain’t eatin’ a mouthful of his pie.”_

Come on now, Blore. There **had** to be a better way to phrase that.

 

 **Up Next:** Examining Blore’s vectors of desire with the other male guests, and revisiting his final flashback with Landor.


End file.
